That One Moment
by NotAContrivance
Summary: Lizzie Bennet Diaries fanfiction... Because there must've been at least ONE moment in which Lizzie thought that Darcy wasn't actually all that bad, despite all her protestations. And a moment in which Darcy thought, "Hey, maybe this isn't just me."


So, this isn't exactly a Pride and Prejudice fic, but there's no category for the Lizzie Bennet Diaries, and this is close enough, right (and if/when LBD ever gets a section of its own, I'll change it)? If you don't know what the Lizzie Bennet Diaries are, get your butt on YouTube and find out. You will not regret it. But basically it's a scripted videoblog modern adaptation of Pride and Prejudice. There are references to both the LBD, the movie, and the book, so... but it's more necessary to watch the LBD if you want to understand the context of when this is happening.

I dunno, but basically the lack of LBD fics after an outright invitation in the last vlog to write them is just... sad to me, so I am trying to help rectify that situation. And I kinda made my timeline of before the next episode... So it's not Lizzie and Darcy having epic adventures together, but it's a start? Also, I'm not as funny as Lizzie, and I apologize for that. Hopefully I've gotten her and Darcy in character, but I'm not sure. I tried? It's real hard to judge when we haven't seen the guy.

Anyway, this is set somewhere in the Netherfield arc, between Episode 31 and 32, probably sometime on the night where Darcy says that his good opinion once lost is lost forever. Because there must've been a moment at Netherfield in which Lizzie Bennet thought that Darcy wasn't actually so bad, despite her constantly pouring on the hatred, if Caroline felt she had to encourage Lizzie to dislike him so much. Just sayin'. Anyway, this story is that moment, and it wound up being a helluva lot longer than I expected.

I've never written a P&P fic before, and the thought of writing a fanfiction of a modern adaptation (i.e. kind of a fanfiction) of Pride and Prejudice is still so totally meta to me (and wow, do I sound like a hipster when I say that), and I'm sorry if this is crap, but I kinda couldn't resist the challenge. Needless to say, I do not own P&P (though I suppose technically everyone does since it's public domain?) or the Lizzie Bennet Diaries. But this story is dedicated to, I guess, the wonderful writers and creators of the LBD and the similarly wonderful Ashley Clements (not that I don't love everyone else, obvi), for making me inspired in all things Pride and Prejudice lately.

* * *

Will Darcy walked into Netherfield's library in search of a book to read, preferably some Beat poetry or light existentialist philosophy, or, perhaps, something with a wistful taste of magical realism or something equally thick and obscure. His earlier hour-long bike ride had not helped him to resolve anything, and he'd laid in bed for thirty minutes, unable to sleep because he couldn't stop thinking about Elizabeth Bennet and her damned eyes, those fine, deep green eyes that glittered with mirth and darkened slightly whenever she so much as looked at him.

He wished he could stop because he had no business getting a crush on some girl he barely knew and would probably never see again after this summer. He had obligations and responsibilities, and she could be no more than a passing diversion at best and no less than a calculating distraction at worst. And, quite against his will, he was becoming increasingly fond of her with every encounter, increasingly interested and drawn further into her web with the more he learned about her and her life.

Darcy had tried and tried, but he couldn't get the immature and sometimes impish woman out of his head, and even now his traitorous mind was conjuring up images of her alabaster skin and her dark auburn hair (how would it feel underneath his fingers?). Darcy wanted to know. Or her lips, her pouty, perfectly kissable lips and the way they twisted up into a smile or a smirk when she was arguing with him. He'd met many women in his life, many women who, like Caroline, had thrown themselves at him, both subtly and unsubtly... women prettier than Elizabeth... but he'd never met anyone with half her spark.

And maybe that was why he was becoming addicted to her, why he couldn't seem to get enough of her.

The only problem was that, well, a part of him was making it clearer and clearer that, with the way things were progressing, he was going to need to make a decision about her one way or the other. Something needed to be done and soon. Darcy still wasn't quite sure things were worth pursuing for all the trouble it could and likely would cause him, not to say the least of her mother and younger sister.

It was with all of this in mind, as well as a desperate need to regain his sanity and ability to sleep, that Darcy found himself in the library at half-past midnight. He gazed at the shelves in the dim lighting and frowned as he surveyed the titles. Bing didn't have much of a collection, nor, apparently, did the previous owners, and half the shelves were empty. Most of the books there were for decoration rather than any practical purposes. Bing's books consisted mostly of medical textbooks, study guides, and some books he'd been forced to read in college (which he hadn't—Bing's attention span was a bit too short for that). Caroline's tastes ran more towards Cosmo and light, fluffy books (usually trashy romance novels) she could read poolside.

He sighed, discouraged, and picked up a copy of Catcher in the Rye, which he supposed would do for now. When he turned, however, he caught a glimpse of someone curled up on the couch. Curious, and partly out of a lack of anything better to do, Darcy turned and walked toward the figure dozing on the sofa. When he got close enough, he saw that it was a somewhat disheveled Lizzie Bennet, who had apparently fallen asleep while reading a Jane Austen novel. Her body, turned away from him even in slumber, was curved around the book, her cheek resting on one of the pages. She didn't look very comfortable, but her face was untroubled and... peaceful in sleep.

Darcy couldn't help but stare at her in wonder. He couldn't remember ever seeing her so at ease and not on edge in all the (admittedly brief) time he'd known her. She must be exhausted from helping Bing with Jane, he thought, feeling a pang of some vaguely alien feeling he couldn't name. He was horrified to find himself reaching out as if to touch her hair. There was something almost childlike about her, something that almost reminded him of Gigi and made him feel somehow... protective of her or like he wanted to be. He swallowed hard, feeling suddenly uncomfortable, and averted his gaze, although he very much wanted to continue observing her slow breathing and the way her chest rose and fell.

Incidentally, her shirt had ridden up a little in sleep, and he had a tantalizing view down the front of her shirt from this angle, which was all the more reason for him to be the gentleman his mother had raised him to be and try to stop looking. Darcy bit his lip, putting his book between his arm and side, hesitating for a moment. He shouldn't disturb her, but, then again, she couldn't be comfortable like that, and she shouldn't have to be uncomfortable when she had a perfectly good bedroom upstairs. He dithered a moment longer before letting out a sigh and lightly shaking her shoulder. Lizzie stirred, eyelids fluttering (God, how long were her eyelashes?), but did not wake.

Darcy tried again, reaching out and pushing her lightly. "Lizzie, wake up," he whispered, leaning in closer so that she would hear. It felt weird, saying her name, her nickname. He rarely addressed her by her name if he could help it, much less by the far more familiar "Lizzie." She turned a little, snuggling into the couch, (why did she have to be so damned cute too? It really just wasn't fair!) and a slightly frustrated Darcy once again grabbed her shoulder. He shook her a bit more forcibly this time, once again entreating her to wake up, and Lizzie's eyelids slowly fluttered open.

Her eyes were greener than he'd ever seen them, cloudy and dazed from sleep. She blinked up at him, vaguely disoriented and sleepy, before glancing around the room. "Go away, Darcy," she muttered, voice thick with exhaustion, before turning over, once again using the book as a pillow, and closing her eyes. Darcy's face fell a little, though he noticed she'd said his name without the usual biting edge he'd grown to look forward to. He was about to say something when Lizzie continued speaking, her (very) mildly irritated voice muffled by the book. "I already told you, I don't want you anywhere _near_ my dreams."

Darcy blinked in surprise. Did that mean she dreamed about him, that she had before? She did that too? What had happened in those dreams? Before he could inquire further, Lizzie cut him off with a dismissive hand wave. "And it doesn't _mean_ anything, Darcy. Dreams are just the random firing of synapses and memories, and next time I want to tell anyone about them, I'm going to tell someone who got further than Freud's Interpretation of Dreams in Psych class and doesn't think that everything comes down to sex." Her voice was a bit sharper, this time the slightly defensive, self-assured tone he was familiar with. His face fell entirely with that comment, but she was right, of course. After all, wasn't that what he'd told himself after he first saw her in his dreams wearing the black dress from Bing's party?

He was so caught up in his thoughts that he missed Lizzie murmuring, "You sound like Lydia, Charlotte! Just because he's attractive doesn't mean I want to..." She trailed off out of a lack of an appropriate word to say there, making a face in her sleep and moving closer toward the couch.

Darcy pursed his lips, wondering if he should just leave her to her rest. They didn't exactly seem to get along, and he was probably the _last_ person at Netherfield she wanted to wake her up. This moment would be so much less awkward for Bing, he thought, envying his best friend a little. She made a small noise, and Darcy's hand decided for him, reaching for one of the pillows on the couch. Setting his own book down by the leg of the sofa and quickly forgetting it, he reached out with one hand and carefully removed the book from under her head. He replaced it with the pillow, which a marginally more contented Lizzie snuggled up to.

He then closed the book quietly and set it aside. She was smiling faintly, like she was having a pleasant dream, and Darcy could only stare at her in rapture. I want to make her smile like that, he thought dreamily, every day. A moment later, when the thought registered, he froze, startled. How could she have such a hold over him already? He shook his head as if to clear it of his foolish, dopey schoolboy thoughts, which worked momentarily. Then he reached down for the throw at the end of the couch, gently pulling it up over Lizzie the same way he did when he was tucking Gigi in. Only it felt different than it did with Gigi for reasons Darcy couldn't (and, to be honest, didn't _want_ to) explain.

Lizzie rolled over suddenly, just as he'd brought the blanket up around her shoulders, bringing her face dangerously close to Darcy's. Naturally, just at that moment, she opened her eyes and saw him. For a moment, those impossibly forest green eyes of hers widened dramatically, and then she let out a little shriek and flopped back on to the sofa. He couldn't help but notice the way her chest rose and fell faster and the alarmed look in her eyes as she clutched her chest. "Darcy, what the _hell_ are you doing here?! Watching me. I was sleeping! What is this, Twilight?" Lizzie interjected sharply, shooting Darcy a cross look and trying to slow her breathing. Paradoxically, the rapid fire pace of the words relaxed her.

As, surprisingly, did the confused look on Darcy's face as he backed away. Darcy couldn't have known it, but when Lizzie had awakened, the light of the moon and dim light of the room had framed him oddly so that he looked eerily pale and... undead... looming over Lizzie's neck. Not that the sight of him so close and so very in her face, much less watching her sleep so intently wasn't creepy in and of itself. Now, that, that Darcy was aware of, hence why he backed away, not knowing what to say but wanting to apologize for startling her nonetheless.

Darcy is _not_ a vampire, Lizzie, Lizzie reminded herself. Or a zombie. It was just the light and being sleep-deprived and kinda creeped out that made you think that... He does not want to eat you. He probably wouldn't find you tempting enough. And obviously your wit is not dry enough for him, so he wouldn't eat your brains either. You'd probably be _barely_ tolerable, she reassured herself, drawing strength from the familiar recitation of what she imagined Darcy was saying about her. It comforted her some to imagine the worst thing Darcy could probably say (and that he was probably thinking of her).

He almost looked apologetic, or, that is, he would if William Darcy knew how to be sorry about anything, which she highly doubted. Elizabeth didn't like to spend a lot of time looking at Darcy's face, lest he comment on it or, worse still, she remember just how very terribly attractive he really was. It was bad enough that that simple fact often snuck up on her when she first saw him sometimes, before he opened his mouth and expressed yet another opinion that made her hate him just a little bit more.

Darcy blinked, befuddled, chancing a glance out the window. "Twilight... what are you talking about? It's half-past midnight," he said, gesturing to the midnight blue color of the sky as seen through the French doors of the balcony. Lizzie, for her part, stifled a laugh; of _course_ he wouldn't get the reference. She ran a hand through her hair, discreetly feeling around her face to see if she'd been drooling. She totally didn't care about what a stuck-up douchebag like Darcy thought, but it bothered her to be seen looking less than completely perfect around him. She didn't need to give him more fodder for his cannon of insults, after all, and she was sure he didn't even say the best ones out loud.

Maybe it was a legacy of her mother's, given her mother's insistence on always being put-together and wearing about a pound of make-up before "going out into the world and meeting some nice young beaus." Or maybe it was the fact that she just heard Darcy's stupid mocking voice in her head making yet another sarcastic and vaguely disparaging remark about her style of dressing and presenting herself in public. God knows she didn't want to hear him go on another tangent about women who had it "together" and making it plainly and painfully obvious to Lizzie that he didn't think she was one of them.

She glanced up. Great. He was back to intensely staring at her again, no doubt to find yet another fault in her and confirm to himself once again that she wasn't pretty enough or smart enough or accomplished enough to merit his attention (whatever that was worth). Just "decent enough." That was it. Being in the same room with Darcy in a semi-vulnerable state and semi-darkness was clearly not a good idea or one that was good for her mental health. Lizzie needed to get out of here before he said something else to her. She clearly wasn't up to facing him now, especially with the headache she could feel coming on.

Lizzie started to sit up and swayed a little, feeling dizzy as all the blood rushed to her head. She felt a bit like a truck had hit her. Surprisingly, Darcy was there to catch her and steady her, and, if she didn't know better, Lizzie would almost think he was concerned. But that was obviously the light and her sleep-addled brain playing tricks on her. Still, it didn't entirely escape her notice that he'd grabbed both of her forearms or that his hands had remained clutching them loosely for considerably longer than was necessary. It was strange how comfortable he seemed touching her, as if he even forgot he was doing it, given their previous interactions.

A fleeting memory of that slow dance at the Gibson wedding came to Lizzie. It was the only other time he'd ever touched her, one of his hands cool on her shoulder, the other one limp at her waist. It had been so awkward, almost dead silent. They'd danced with what felt like an entire ocean between them, making Elizabeth aware almost immediately of the differences between herself and her staid, stiff dance partner. At least, they had danced like that until she'd given up trying to talk to him and had simply moved closer, stretching her arms around his neck to pull him a bit closer. Then they'd swayed together in silence for the rest of the two or three minutes. She was tired and didn't want to crane her neck to look up at him, so maybe she'd rested her head against part of his chest or shoulder, maybe lightly or not at all.

And maybe his grip had tightened just a little, and he'd seemed a bit more at ease, but that was probably her misinterpreting him. Willfully, like he thought she did, right?

Contrary to what everyone else thought, she hadn't exactly hated him upon sight. She had _tried_ to give him a chance. She'd been a bit miffed by his treatment before, and yeah, she'd kind of thought he came off a bit arrogant, like he thought he was above the Gibson wedding, and, sure, he didn't seem like he knew how to have fun... but she'd been willing to give him the benefit of the doubt for a few hours, right up until she'd heard him and Bing. That had pushed her mild disinclination toward him over the edge into outright dislike.

She generally tried not to think about that night. Or about how she'd pretended that what Darcy said hadn't effected her at all, but when she'd gotten home and gone to her room and was alone, the facade had fallen, and she'd cried for an hour. He wasn't worth crying herself to sleep over, but it had still stung. Especially since she'd always known she wasn't the "pretty sister" or the "fun one."

"Lizzie, are you okay?" he asked a bit worriedly, looking her over for any signs of illness. She'd been around Jane, after all, and even if Bing swore that she wasn't contagious (and Bing's own lack of illness seemed to suggest the same), it was still possible for her to catch her sister's illness. The common cold, though generally harmless, was still a virus, and her sister had showed some of the same symptoms. Darcy frowned at his own thought processes; Bing was rubbing off on him. He tried to look her in the eyes, having noticed earlier that her eyes were fairly bloodshot, but she dodged him and looked away very determinedly.

A weary Lizzie sighed. "What are you doing here?" she groaned, aware that it sounded better than her asking equally bluntly why he was trying to help her, much less, still touching her. She tried feebly to push him away, but she was still a bit dizzy. She'd missed dinner and hadn't eaten anything since lunch, and she hadn't been able to sleep very well here, partly because she missed home and partly because she still didn't feel comfortable as a guest in someone else's home. A slightly hostile and super awkward home at that, despite its many luxuries.

Darcy swallowed, glancing around the room. He was unused to talking much to Elizabeth, and he had never had much of a chance, if any, to be alone with her. That they were suddenly alone in an empty room at night when everyone else in the house was sleeping was overwhelming to him. "I came in for a book, and you were sleeping." Darcy bent down to retrieve both his book and Lizzie's, handing her hers. She looked up at him, leaning back against the sofa. She looked slightly miffed at the gesture.

He shrugged, looking down almost shyly, and Lizzie scolded herself for ever thinking that anything about Darcy the Arrogant could ever be shy... it was practically a cousin of modest, and Darcy was the exact opposite of that! "I saw you, and I figured that you couldn't be very comfortable all curled up like that, so..." Lizzie found her anger rising. Typical Darcy, always thinking he knew what was _best_ for everyone! He licked his lips, folding the blanket around her absently. Lizzie looked down at it in incredulity and then back up at Darcy. Had he done something nice for her?

She didn't know how to feel about that. Darcy doing something nice... well, it was just wrong. The words "nice" and "Darcy" didn't even belong in the same sentence. Her sleepiness was clearly causing her to see things that weren't there, like Darcy's supposed good side. Perish the thought that some clueless part of her had ever dared to suggest that Darcy was even remotely nice! It was unthinkable!

And it would make it a lot harder to fulfill her promise to loathe him for all eternity. She liked hating him. It was easy and familiar, and it was the only way to make sense of his paradoxical behavior and her (sometimes puzzling) rather... _intense_... reactions to it.

He shifted uncomfortably, removing his hands from the blanket as if he'd been burned. "I thought I should wake you up so you could go sleep in your bed and be comfortable," he continued awkwardly, hearing the strain in his own voice. His voice had practically cracked. What was it about Lizzie Bennet that made him feel thirteen again? Lizzie blinked, absorbing this and trying to find the judgment or mockery in his words. She must be really tired if she couldn't come up with anything. Either that or Darcy was, actually, somewhere deep, _deep_ down, a considerate human being.

She was too exhausted to scoff as she would've usually. Sometimes she wondered if she even knew who he was at all, but then she reviewed her encounters with him and came up with the same conclusions. She opened her mouth to say something, but could think of nothing. What did she have to thank him for, after all? Instead, Elizabeth merely looked down at the book in her hand as if it had any answers. Somehow she felt like Jane Austen could've seen exactly how her life story was going to end, that maybe the author could've made some sense of her life, even if that didn't make sense at all. "Let me help you upstairs," Darcy insisted before she could reject him, admiring the round little birthmarks on her neck and collarbone.

Lizzie shied away from him, setting the book down and all but leaping to her feet. She was still a little dizzy and swayed slightly upon standing, but she wasn't about to show him that. "You really don't have to do that," she insisted stubbornly, pushing him away and beginning to make her way out of the room. "Really." Her feet and limbs, however, felt like lead. Or, failing that, each step was like walking on pins and needles, and Lizzie was hesitant to put too much weight on her numbed legs but trying very hard not to show it. She had to keep up appearances after all.

A somewhat agitated Darcy followed her, shadowing her steps. He was a bit gratified when she stumbled into a bookcase. Naturally, he was right behind her to catch her and right her, much to Lizzie's chagrin. "I think I'd better escort you, Miss Elizabeth," he said a bit sarcastically, though part of him was inwardly cringing at his old-fashioned use of her name, the blatant overcompensation. "Wouldn't want you to hurt yourself." That should've made her angry, his presumption, but Lizzie was caught up in another wave of weariness. She wanted a bed, any bed. She was still lucid enough, however, to register just how close Darcy was standing to her, with his chest lightly pressed against her back, his body supporting her weight and her steps as she wobbled and walked like a drunken Lydia.

It dimly registered that perhaps Darcy didn't need to stand so very close to her to do this, but the thought was gone almost as quickly as it came. Just like the idle thoughts that followed a moment later of how warm he was and how... strangely safe she felt. She was ultimately too tired to protest, and she figured it wouldn't hurt much since her bedroom was just down the hallway. After all, it wasn't like Darcy would even come in her bedroom. He was probably too afraid her mediocrity would rub off on him if he set foot in her temporary sanctuary.

Lizzie yawned and let Darcy take her arm. She was, of course, unaware of how he was thrilling over the fact that he was holding her bare forearm, skin on skin, carefully directing her to the door. Her skin felt every bit as soft as he'd ever imagined, and having her so close, getting to smell her and feel her in his arms after months of deprivation when the mere sight of her was driving him crazy... All this, and he _still_ wanted more.

Darcy suddenly wasn't so sure how much more he could take of this. Sooner or later, Lizzie Bennet was going to wear him down entirely. When would enough be enough for him?

Lizzie's eyes were already closing, though, even as Darcy steered her, surprisingly gentler and more patiently than she would've expected (but, then, she remembered someone saying his sister was substantially younger than him), it struck her that she perhaps ought not to be so comfortable around a man she hated. He was a stuck-up, self-important, pretentious, pedantic, preening... prick. And some other things she was having trouble remembering in her semiconscious state. All she could remember was that she wasn't supposed to like him, and he wasn't supposed to like her, but she was fuzzy on the reasons now.

Darcy helped her down the hallway, throwing her dead weight arm around his neck and stooping a little to help push her forward bit by bit. His other arm was wrapped firmly around her waist as he helped guide her to her temporary bedroom. It was a spot of particular contemplation in his late night hours, when he would walk past her door and stare at it just a little too long before finally heading on to his own room, which was coincidentally located nearby thanks to Bing's maneuverings. He'd never been inside (though he dreamed about it and sometimes wished he had the right to just barge in like all the others seemed to), but he knew which room was hers from Bing and Caroline, and he found himself stopping in front of her door more often than not, wanting to talk to her but unable to find the words or the courage.

He tried to tell himself that it wouldn't be too weird if he just knocked, the way Bing did, (but he was lying to himself and poorly at that because it SO would be so totally _awkweird_) but he could so rarely think of anything intelligent to say to her. Half the time he spoke to her, he put his foot in his mouth or she misunderstood his meaning entirely, and there was nothing he could do to remedy it. So he might as well not talk or stop by rather than humiliate himself further by trying to be social. She clearly saw right through him, after all.

He always felt like he had to be on his best game for Elizabeth, but, even then, nothing he seemed to do was enough to impress her. In a way, though, he kind of liked that, that she didn't buy into the wealth and fame like so many others did. He had to think to deal with her, and she'd got him feeling something other than apathy, rage, crushing guilt and disappointment, and (the occasional and rare) mild amusement after what had happened to Gigi.

Nonetheless, that didn't stop him from wanting to impress her and get her to like him too... not that he was particularly succeeding, despite his best efforts. Elizabeth slipped a little, sliding down against his side, her grip tightening around his neck so that she didn't fall. She blinked a little, briefly opening and reclosing her eyes. Darcy's breath was coming quicker now—from her proximity and not the exertion—so he rested a moment, leaning Lizzie's weight against him, helping to hold her upright as he tried to slow his breathing. Like many things in his life recently, it didn't exactly work out according to plan when Lizzie slumped over. He tightened his grip around her waist, unintentionally pulling her closer and cursing himself as he did it. She was so close he could catch a whiff of her hair, which smelled like wildflowers and rainforests.

It was an intoxicating fragrance, one Darcy could've inhaled forever, but he somehow managed to resist bending down and burying his nose in her hair. She was still conscious enough to notice and call him on it, after all, and he didn't want her to get the wrong impression about him and his intentions (or lack thereof). Though charming and beautiful, she was still profoundly unsuitable and all wrong for him, as much as he liked to admire her in spite of it. It could never come to anything serious, if it ever came to anything at all.

All too soon, they had reached her door. Darcy cursed himself for wishing that this awkward ambling wouldn't come to an end. He couldn't remember ever being so ridiculous, much less over a girl, in his whole life. His hands were loathe to release her now that he knew how it felt to hold her, but somehow he managed. Lizzie was slipping deeper into slumber, and it was a wonder that she was still conscious enough to be upright. Wary of this and not wanting any harm to come to her, Darcy leaned her against the doorframe, sandwiching her loosely between it and himself. One hand stayed on the other side of her waist, just by her hip, in case she fell over, while the other hand reached for the doorknob.

If she had been conscious enough, he would've let her go by herself, but in her present state he doubted she'd make it. As it was, Darcy opened the door and flicked on the lights, trying not to peer inside. Naturally, he failed miserably, unable to resist the temptation of catching a glimpse at the room where Lizzie slept. It wasn't her real bedroom, but it was hers for the moment, and filled with her things... and Darcy had this almost insatiable desire to learn more about her every day. He mostly accomplished this slowly and in subtle ways, through careful observation.

He began to inventory the items almost automatically: the big chest of drawers with the little silver jewelry tree and the yellow orchid on top of it along with a white bowl and some other knickknacks, the black and white photo of an open road and stormy skies above her bed. On her bedside table, he noticed an alarm clock, a hairbrush, a set of silver earrings, and a few books. A white laptop rested on the desk, along with a few notebooks, pens, papers and... was that the section of the paper with job listings? In the corner of the room was a navy suitcase with some of Lizzie's things peeking out of it or strewn in its near vicinity: a few plaid shirts, a red clip-on bow tie, a stethoscope, a pink scarf flecked with spots in other colors, and a brown pageboy hat that was curiously similar to his favorite hat.

Strangely, though he liked everything to be well-ordered, the room's mild state of disarray made him smile. It was _so_ like her. And there, in the center of the room, where he'd been trying not to look, was her bed, queen-sized and inviting with a black black coverlet and heaps of black and white pillows, some of which had been cast to the side, probably in irritation (what sane person liked to sleep with that many pillows on her bed?). Lizzie's grip around his shoulders had slackened, so Darcy found that he had to pry her away from the molding. He had to all but carry her in order to get her to move with him, and that meant actually stepping foot in Lizzie's room, which made him feel strangely like he was violating some kind of unwritten rule to their relationship, or, worse still... her privacy.

Together, the two of them made their way to Lizzie's bed. It took them what seemed like a small eternity, and Darcy's nervousness and trepidation grew with every step. Here he was, in Lizzie Bennet's bedroom all alone with her, steering her towards a bed. The mere thought alone, let alone that it was actually **happening** _in real life_, was almost too much to bear. Albeit it wasn't exactly going how he'd dreamed it would, and she was almost entirely unconscious, so he couldn't really throw her down on the bed like he wanted to and do all the wicked and wonderful things he'd imagined doing to her (starting with finding a much more satisfying use for both of their mouths)... but he was still here.

Darcy let out a sigh, trying to ignore the way his fingers trembled a little. Get a grip, Darcy, he reminded himself sternly. It didn't quite work, the reminder. Then he reached out with one hand and started to slowly peel back the sheets. The other hand remained quite firmly around her waist, his sweaty palm flat against her stomach, over her bellybutton. Lizzie's head had lolled back and now rested against his shoulder, the rest of her back leaning against his side. It was getting progressively harder for him to breathe when her head was only a few inches shy of fitting perfectly under his chin.

Once he'd turned the sheets down an adequate amount, Darcy lightly nudged Elizabeth with his hip, which turned out to be a bit of a mistake, given their present proximity. She moved a little, muttering something unintelligible and turning her head towards him, but she didn't get the hint. He put his other hand on her shoulder, touching cool, creamy skin. His fingertips almost touched her collarbone. He shook her lightly, but she merely turned her head towards his hand. He tried not to be too encouraged by this, reminding himself that he didn't want her to be interested in him anyway, but naturally Darcy had always been lousy at lying to himself.

Darcy bent down a little to whisper in her ear. "Lizzie, I know you're sleepy, and I'm sorry if I wake you... I'm just going to help you get into bed, okay?" he murmured almost apologetically, already beginning to turn her in his hands, very very carefully. He gradually lowered her to the surface of the bed, picking up her feet and setting them down gently on the bed once when her back was flat against the mattress. She stirred a little but didn't wake, letting out a sleepy yawn that suddenly made Darcy long to lay down beside her, and, then, a moment later, when he regained what little was left of his senses, made him long for his own bed and the sleep that awaited him.

She turned toward him a bit in her sleep, tucking a hand underneath her head. Darcy gazed at the fine fringe of her umber eyelashes for a moment with the naked admiration he usually kept hidden behind one of his impassive masks. Then he reached down, allowing himself a deep breath, and pulled the covers over Lizzie all the way up to her shoulders. He found himself tucking her in reflexively, the way he used to with Gigi, and he couldn't even bring himself to be horrified at his behavior. It spoke of such naked fondness that he was lucky she was asleep or else his feelings would've been completely bared to her in a single instant, despite their blunders and misunderstandings.

He pulled a pillow over, sliding it carefully under her head, and was mildly gratified to watch Lizzie snuggle into it. He was smiling again, quite without realizing it, just looking at her. After a few too many moments of this, Darcy cleared his throat and straightened, preparing to leave. He'd seen her to her bed, and he had no right to be in here any longer. Nonetheless, something gave him pause, and he hesitated a moment, taking in one last glimpse of her.

A few strands of her hair had fallen over her face, and Darcy was powerless to resist the urge to push them back. He did this almost without realizing what he was doing, dreamily without even pausing for thought, brushing the strands back, fingertips skimming her face and combing through her silken hair as he tucked the stray locks behind her ear. It felt so natural, so right. His fingers lingered a bit longer than they should've, until Darcy realized what he was doing and drew back hastily, as if he'd burned his fingertips.

It was at this movement that Lizzie's eyelids fluttered and then opened. Her eyes were every bit as disoriented as they'd been before, her gaze unfocused and yet strangely bright. She looked right at him, right into his eyes, and Darcy prayed that she didn't see straight through him. Her stare was so... cutting, sometimes. Darcy's mouth fell open slightly, and he took a big step back, a guilty expression on his face. Part of him was slightly terrified that she'd freak out at him again, which he would well deserve, given how creepy he was being. She was asleep, after all, and that wasn't an excuse to touch her, no matter how soft her skin was or how pretty she looked like that, tucked into bed like a much younger girl. A part of him hoped she'd fall back asleep and forget this had ever happened.

Lizzie did none of that. It seemed that she delighted in defying all of Darcy's expectations. Her lips curved upwards into a tiny, beautiful little close-mouthed smile, like she was amused with the whole idea. She blinked languidly and let out a little chuckle that completely warmed his heart and made something in his stomach flip, almost like he was nauseous but in a pleasant and totally terrifying way. She rubbed a hand across her neck idly. "Darcy, you know..." she began in a voice still heavy with sleep but laced with something else, something softer. He leaned in towards her, eager to hear what she would say next.

He didn't realize how close he was until he realized that he was virtually almost eye-to-eye with Lizzie. She didn't move, so she didn't seem to notice. Maybe she was more comfortable around him than he'd thought... maybe he was just projecting his own feelings onto her. Her hands were so close that she could've easily reached out and touched him, while Darcy's hands were wisely and limply at his sides. "No matter what I say about you, you're not that bad. Not as bad and unsociable as you want me to think you are, anyway," Lizzie pronounced in a bit of a sing-songy drawl, pointing at him. He froze. So she _had_ seen right through him and the way he liked to push others away, exactly like he'd feared (and, God, was there a woman more perfect for him than this one who perfectly saw through his bullshit?); a bit of a cold sweat began to break out on the back of his neck as he waited for whatever she would say next.

She did not call him on his crush, nor did she make fun of him (well, not _exactly_, anyway) as he was expecting. She let out a little chuckle once more, although it was more of a snort. "If you loosened up once in a while and learned how to have a life, you might actually be some fun," she murmured sleepily, lips turning upwards into that faint smile once more. Darcy glanced down, closing his eyes for a moment. She was right, of course, and he wished he could be that guy with easy manners, the life of the party, but that guy wasn't him. He wasn't comfortable around strangers in the kind of new and awkward social situations that Bing thrived on. He didn't know how to just... let go... like that. It wasn't that easy for him, no matter how much he wanted to.

He was snapped out of his thoughts when Lizzie poked him in the chest with that pointed finger. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, a glittering emerald, almost sea-green, really. "You're an okay guy, Darcy. Remember that someday when it comes to bite me in the ass," she mumbled, burying half of her face in the pillow. Her hair slid down the side of her face like a curtain, cutting most of her off from his view.

She would have an extremely vague recollection of this conversation in the morning, though she would not be quite convinced it had actually occurred. Darcy's face wore the same stony expression and intense stare she'd grown semi-accustomed to seeing over the breakfast table, and it betrayed nothing but a trace of fondness that Lizzie's eyes missed out of a lack of familiarity with the man. She was not, after all, in the habit of scrutinizing Darcy or paying much attention to his features, and did not have the benefit of others' more practiced years of study. If he'd pressed, she probably would've denied ever saying such things, unable to believe it herself, rationalizing it as a dream that had made sense in context, even if it made no rational sense in the light of day, when she was fully awake. The memory would fade quickly until it was nothing more than a half-remembered dream, too ridiculous to be real.

Darcy could only chuckle in response, not fully comprehending her. He wouldn't understand her words for a long, long time, months too late. At the moment, all that was running through his mind was that Lizzie didn't think he was that bad, that she'd said he was an okay guy, and he didn't understand what else she'd meant, but maybe it meant something good for him. "All right, I will," he promised in a very sincere and serious tone of voice. Lizzie's lips quirked upwards just a little more, and Darcy smiled in return. It had been so long since he'd smiled that the expression felt foreign and uncomfortable, almost as if he'd forgotten how.

In lighter spirits, buoyed by this reassurance that what he felt wasn't completely off-base, Darcy added, "And I'll remind you of this moment then... when you said you actually kind of..." Dare he say it? He paused for a moment, licking his lips, watching the way Lizzie's nose crinkled. "-Liked me," he finished, almost breathless, wondering what she would say in response, if she would rush to deny it immediately. He colored faintly, but Lizzie didn't see.

Lizzie shook her head. "I said no such thing," she mumbled through her hands. It didn't come out quite as indignantly as she'd meant it to. Sleepily, she supposed that there were far worse things in the world than liking Darcy. Maybe she liked him as a human being. At certain times. When he was quiet and like this, almost sort of... pleasant. It was more difficult to hate him when he wasn't being obnoxious or ignoring and insulting everyone.

She was half-aware that she would probably forget all of this in the morning, and she wasn't wholly convinced that this was really happening or that she was awake, so her filter was all but gone. Her nose peeked out from her hair, and Darcy admired the way her breathing slowed down further. "Thanks. For helping me," she added a moment later in a voice so quiet he might not have heard it had he not been so close to her. Darcy smiled immediately, brightly like a small child, in a way he had not smiled in years. "G'night, Darcy," she said, wiggling her fingers in an approximation of a wave, before burrowing into her bed, eyes closing once again.

He wanted to kiss her on the forehead, the same way he might if she were Gigi, but she was not his sister, not _his_ in any sense of the word, and he didn't have the right... he barely knew her, and he shouldn't be so damn... infatuated. It was pathetic. Darcy shook his head at his own foolishness, biting back all the things he wanted to say to her, starting with thanks and ending with something like "you have bewitched me" or "how ardently I admire you." Eventually, after some debate, he followed her lead. "Goodnight, Elizabeth." And yet it sounded so stodgy and formal coming from his lips, not quite soothing or gentle as he'd intended; not that it mattered, given that Lizzie was already fast asleep.

He gazed at her for just a moment longer. It was rare that he was given a chance to watch her unimpeded and unobserved, much less when she seemed so vulnerable and at peace, calm rather than animated and lively. Sometimes he thought that Lizzie Bennet was like a traffic accident, a bit of a wreck and a mess to clean up and full of drama and sparks and destruction (like what she was doing to his brain, not to mention his heart), and he knew he should look away and keep on driving... but he just couldn't look away. And, truth be told, he didn't want to.

But, somehow, Darcy managed to pry his eyes from what he could make out of Lizzie's visage. Though it almost pained him to do it, he turned on his heel, turning his back on her, and made his way across the room. He flicked the lights off and, through some Herculean effort, managed not to look back over his shoulder and make out her form in the darkness, where he knew it lay. Then, very carefully and quietly, he closed the door, not daring to peek inside. His hand on the handle, he leaned his back against the door, closing his eyes and trying to steady his breathing. Had that just happened? Had he really touched Elizabeth and helped her to bed, and she'd smiled at him?

He opened his eyes after a moment, at a loss to what this had all meant and what he ought to do about it. He'd thought he knew what he was doing and what he wanted, but maybe it was worth reconsidering. Maybe this night had changed things and meant he really was in danger after all... Steps had to be taken. In a fog from his encounter, Darcy wandered down the hall to his room, failing to notice Caroline Lee watching him in the shadows. He fell asleep soon after his head hit the pillow with a faint smile on his face.

Caroline had gotten up to get a glass of water to drink and had wound up seeing him exiting Lizzie Bennet's room. Her eyes had narrowed in irritation and fury; there was no mistaking the utterly besotted look on his face. Clearly her previous efforts and antagonism hadn't been enough to make Darcy dislike Lizzie even a tenth as much as she hated him. She needed to redouble her efforts to make Elizabeth Bennet seem as unpleasant as possible, and, failing that, take drastic measures to ensure nothing happened on either end. She would continue "talking him up" to Lizzie and talking Lizzie down to him... and anything else she could think of. It had to work. After all the legwork _she'd_ put in, she wasn't about to let an upstart like immature, ridiculous, _undeserving_ Lizzie Bennet land William Darcy.

Lizzie, who was unaware of all of this, barely remembered any of it the next morning, although she did notice upon waking that she wasn't in the library where she'd originally fallen asleep. It vaguely occurred to her that someone must've moved her, and she remembered someone helping her to her bed, though she figured it was probably Bing or Jane or maybe even Caroline... even though she recalled the feeling of a man's hands on her sides and arms, and the man in her memories was a great deal taller than Bing or any of the other women. She was left with the vague sensation that she'd missed something, though she easily forgot about it in favor of the bacon and waffles she smelled cooking.

She did, however, wonder a bit later why she smelled vaguely like Darcy's cologne and why he'd given her this strange, vaguely constipated expression at breakfast that seemed to be, at least in part, a smile. She shrugged and wrote it off as Darcy being Darcy, in a surprisingly good mood thanks to the food and unable to even think a bad thing about Darcy so early in the morning. That was kind of the thing about Darcy; sometimes he'd almost seem like a decent enough guy, and she could sorta get it, why Bing-the-nicest-guy-she'd-ever-met and Caroline were friends with him... but then he would express some ridiculously judgmental or offensive opinion and ruin it all, and she couldn't figure out which Darcy was the real one, nice, boring guy, or insufferable, self-righteous windbag.

Predictably, it wasn't long before the pompous jerk was back to pissing her off again, but it had been nice while it lasted.

* * *

Loren ;*

Anyway, I hope you've enjoyed it, and I'd love it if you told me what you think. Preferably in the form of a review, though other forms are nice too! Thanks!


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